The Deadliest of Sins
by Dijabringabeeralong
Summary: For A-Trip-to-honeydukes' The Magic Number Competition. A series of one-shots based on the Seven Deadly Sins and a set of prompts given to me by the challenger. Rated T for safety, it may or may not change depending on how they go.
1. Chapter 1

_**Authors note: **__I meant to start this when I signed up, which was a while ago now, but I have bursts of inspiration and then they die. My last burst of inspiration was killed writing Alarice Tey's How Many Words Challenge. My second burst was killed by one of the RP sites I'm on. And before I knew it, the deadline had passed. But yea, I'm doing this as a challenge rather than as a competition entry. A-trip-to-Honeydukes' Magic Number Competition. Seven deadly sins, seven prompts. I'm starting with Sloth, and the prompt nightmare. I don't like this one, I think I missed the meaning of Sloth completely, but this is the only inspiration I have._

_**1. A lethargy of the mind and body**_

Harry was kneeling behind the remains of a stone statue, wand gripped so tightly in his hand that his knuckles shone white, his heart was pounding in his chest, and his legs felt like jelly, his whole body shook with adrenaline and fear. Every time he peered over his makeshift shield, another spell was tossed at him, bursting in a shower of sparks against the abused stone. The situation had a kind of fuzziness around it, like he wasn't really there. He brushed the thought aside as he heard voices and footsteps getting closer, and he shifted his white knuckle grip on his wand. Time to start moving again. He darted from behind the statue, dashing towards a stone wall with one arm over his head in a vague attempt to protect his head from oncoming spells. He fired one in their general direction, heard them laugh as it missed them by a mile and hit another statue.

He couldn't remember where he was. The colours had been leached out of everything, leaving the world in a drab greyscale. There was nothing but the fear, the yells of the people attacking him, and smooth, polished wand in his grip. He wondered briefly at how he was able to run, his legs felt so weak, the shakes were threatening to take over, all he wanted to do was lie down and sleep. Of course, he hadn't actually _planned_ to lie down and sleep, until the spell hit him in the back with a force that sent him flying forwards, slamming into the ground several feet ahead of him. The grass underneath him felt. . . strange. The smells weren't right. His back didn't hurt as much as it should. The fuzziness around the edges of his mind was getting thicker, rolling in like fog until everything faded away – the grass, the statue, the smell of smoke and ashes, the sound of coarse voices laughing and the shock of being hit with a spell in the back and falling on his face. . .

Harry slowly returned to the land of the living, grumbling under his breath and his back aching. How long had he been lying on the sofa? The coffee table in front of him was littered with old copies of the Daily Prophet, empty crisp bags, cartons with grains of rice stuck to the bottom and coated in congealed sweet and sour sauce, and empty potion vials. The room itself was a mess, the coat hanger had fallen off the wall and left where it fell, on top of jackets, scarves and hats that were never worn. The mantelpiece, along with everything on it, had a layer of dust, the two armchairs looked like they hadn't been sat on in months. His back still hurt, a dull ache that hadn't gone away with the stint in St. Mungo's after his last assignment as an Auror. He sat up and the pain intensified, so he lay back again, flicking his wand absently at the kitchen. The snap of the kettle being switched on could be heard from where he lay, and he looked around him for a moment before finding the tv remote on the floor.

He barely heard the knock on the door over the sound of the silly muggle movie on the tv, and ignored it, but the knocking got more and more insistent the longer he ignored it, so he struggled into a sitting position, then standing, and shuffling to the door in a pair of pyjama bottoms and a tattered dressing gown. When was the last time the door had been opened? He couldn't remember. Ginny and Hermione barged into the apartment, wrinkling their noses at the state of the place. Now that he was looking at it properly, with other people in the dingy apartment, it was a lot messier than he had initially thought. He made a half-hearted attempt to clean up, mumbling apologies and telling them that he hadn't been expecting visitors. Hermione only sniffed in response, her nose still wrinkled, and Ginny just stood there, watching him with a strange look in her eyes. The kettle clicked in the kitchen and he took it as an opportunity to bustle out of the room, digging three clean cups out of a cupboard and wincing at the pain that shot through his back with bending to search the cutlery drawer for spoons.

When he came back to the sitting room with three cups of tea held awkwardly in his hands, the sitting room had been cleared of the worst of the mess, all empty food packaging was gone, the dust had been cleared off the surfaces, and his blanket had been folded neatly and thrown over the back of the sofa. Ginny and Hermione sat on the two armchairs, and took a cup each without a word. He flopped back onto the sofa, avoiding their gazes and settling into the only position that didn't make his back hurt. They sat there for a while, sipping their tea, before Hermione finally broke the silence.

"You haven't gone to work in weeks."

He shrugged, neither agreeing nor contradicting. There wasn't a lot he could say, really. It was the truth. She hadn't started her spiel yet, might as well keep quiet and let her run on. She was bound to have more to say before they finally left him be again. True to form, she didn't stay quiet long, and her rant was about how his life couldn't stop every time he got some sort of injury, that this wasn't like him, and that sitting on his arse all day wouldn't help his back heal. A small part of his mind agreed with her, that he wouldn't have just lay down and given up if Voldemort were still running rampant. But that had been his purpose in life, hadn't it? He was the only one who could destroy him, and now he was gone. He had started feeling that his life had lost its purpose. The wizards he fought against now seemed minor in comparison, and now that it was all over, he was starting to think about his life. He had wanted to help people, right? He had wanted to rid the world of evil people, to make the world a better place for Rose and Hugo, for Teddy, Victoire, Dominique and Louis.

His thoughts ran on, blotting out Hermione's lecture, and his eyes glazed over, staring sightlessly ahead of him. Merlin, he was so _tired._ He heard Hermione snap at him, and he glanced at her, his eyes still glazed and not really listening. He grimaced at the look she gave him, but didn't react when she stood up abruptly, declaring that he was just being lazy, and stalked out of the apartment, leaving the door open behind her. He sat there in awkward silence, feeling Ginnys gaze on him, before she finally followed Hermione out the door, shutting it behind her with a click. He stayed in his slouched position on the sofa, staring at the door. Should he follow them? Apologise and try to fix himself and the mess he was making of his life? He decided he should, but couldn't bring himself to actually get up. It seemed that his get up and go had got up and gone, and he didn't know how to fix it.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Authors Note: **__Here we go, part two of the Magic Number Competition. Pride, with the prompt Triumph. I have a feeling I'm going to miss the meaning of Pride altogether again, but sure anyway. Oh well. Wrote about Bellatrix, about an event that didn't happen in either the books or the movies. It doesn't matter, does it? It wouldn't surprise me if they did shit like this. _

**2. Pride comes before a fall. **

Bellatrix grinned toothily, watching the building crumble, flames licking at the roof before they finally gave in and collapsed. The people who had lived there were lined up in front of the house, watching it burn with shock in their eyes. They had been harbouring Mudbloods, the Snatchers had said. Feeling bored with hiding away in Malfoy Manor, she had opted to go and take care of it herself, bringing a couple of Snatchers with her and dragging the traitors out of their beds in the wee hours of the morning. The house had been searched for secret compartments, places where they could have hidden the Mudbloods, and found a suspicious panel in the wood of the sitting room. They also hadn't been able to gain access to the cellar. They let the tenents believe that they hadn't seen these irregularities, until they had dragged them out of the building and set fire to it.

The tenants themselves had been all for proclaiming their loyalty, that they'd never harbour fugitives when they could have given them to the Snatchers, but their lies were revealed when they screaming started from within the supposedly empty house. The family, a married couple with two children, had done their best to pretend that they didn't care about the fact that their house was being destroyed with all their belongings, but the youngest child had no such inhibitions, and had wailed when she saw the fire, begging her father to let her friends out. He tried to explain that it was her teddies that she was worried about, and tried to silence her, but Bellatrix tore the child away from her fathers embrace to ask what she was talking about. Of course, it had all come out then, a list of names of Mudbloods mixed with the names she had given her toys, and Bellatrix smiled sadistically at the girls' parents. They had both fallen silent, staring her in sheer terror. Yes, this is what she lived for. The heady rush that came with having such complete control over other peoples' lives. She handed the child to one of the Snatchers, who held her awkwardly as she squirmed in his arms.

A few curt orders and the Snatcher was gone, taking the child with him, and the mother started wailing, sounding almost comically similar to her daughter. A quick flick of her wand forced the remaining family members to turn and face the burning building, and she moved to stand behind them, prodding them in the back of the head with her wand if they tried to look away. "This would never have happened if you hadn't welcomed those Mudbloods into your home." She murmured silkily, straight into the fathers' ear, grinning as he recoiled away from the voice right behind him. "If you weren't raising your daughter to be a blood traitor, I wouldn't have had to take her away from you, before you corrupt her further. The Dark Lord will thank me for removing the corruption from her life. With the right parenting, she'll grow up proud of her heritage, proud of what we did for her." The pure belief in what she was saying filled her voice, her eyes shone with an almost religious fervour. The other two Snatchers took hold of the couple, holding tight despite their struggling.

"Take them to the Ministry for questioning." She commanded, and they disappeared, taking the remaining child with them, and she sighed contentedly, watching the fire continue to ravage the house. The screams had stopped some time ago, but she would stay until the fire had burnt itself out, to make sure there were bodies to show the Dark Lord if he came to inspect the damage. Tonight had been a triumph, like many other nights before it. A small triumph, but a triumph nonetheless. The Dark Lords power was getting stronger with every day, most of the people who opposed them had been eliminated. Harry Potter was nowhere to be found, and the seeds of doubt that had been planted with his disappearance had started to grow, fuelled by the Death Eaters who told all and sundry that he had abandoned them.

They were so close to total control that she could taste it, and it tasted sweet. Nothing could go wrong now. All was well.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Authors Note: **__Wheee, another one! Gluttony this time, with the prompt Pumpkin Juice. I'm playing around with the fact that Ron eats a lot, please don't get too angry with me. Writing this made me hungry. _

**3. Will you ever stop eating?**

Ron plonked himself down on the hard wooden bench at the Gryffindor table, his stomach grumbling loudly at him. The classes were far too long, the breaks between snacktimes almost as bad. He could almost smell the food, making his mouth water in anticipation, and grinned when it appeared out of nowhere on the platters in front of him. The sight of so much delectable food appearing right before his very eyes would never get old. First on the menu was a slice of the steaming steak and kidney pie right in front of him. Reaching over and cutting himself a generous slice, he sighed in appreciation when the first forkful touched his lips. Heaven. The pastry was light, and flaky, the steak tender, the gravy rich and thick. Before long, the slice of pie was gone, and he moved on to the plate of drumsticks slightly to his left. The four largest were heaped onto his plate, followed closely by a heaped spoonful of mashed potatoes, a few chips, some mixed roasted vegetables and two large spoonfuls of onion gravy.

As much as he missed his mums cooking and her generous portions, the House Elves did a very good job getting everything just right, almost how his mum would cook it back home. The drumsticks were crisp on the outside, tender and juicy on the inside, with minimal traces of fat and plenty of meat on the bone. The mash was smooth, almost creamy in texture, with just the right amounts of salt, pepper and butter. The chips were crunchy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, with no grease in sight. The vegetables were cooked to perfection, slightly charred around the edges, their natural sugars caramelising them slightly and making them sweeter. He barely slowed to chew as he shovelled the food into his mouth, grunting in appreciation and filling the gap that sitting through two hours of History of Magic had created. He barely noticed the people around him, leaning over his plate and staring into space as he continued to shove food into his gob at an alarming pace. He heard someone comment on how he was going to choke if he didn't slow down, and mumbled something incoherent through a mouthful of mash. He couldn't help it, he had a healthy appetite.

He was finished in minutes, and helped himself to another slice of pie and another spoonful of mash, polishing them off before the platters and plates cleaned themselves, all traces of dinner gone. He leaned back and sighed happily, waiting patiently for dessert. In the meantime, he poured himself a glass of pumpkin juice, downing it in one go before pouring another, draining it and refilling his glass. The food had made him thirsty, but he saved the third glass for when dessert arrived, which was exactly ten minutes after the main course had disappeared. He immediately reached for a large slice of apple and blackberry pie, with a large scoop of ice cream on top, and attacked it with gusto, shovelling large forkfuls into his mouth in much the same way he had eaten the main course. Again, the pastry was perfect, crunchy and light, with a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar on top to give it extra crunch. The apples were slightly tart, soft but still with their shape, and the blackberries added an extra sweetness to it. When he was finished, a helping of trifle was heaped into his bowl, and between swigs of pumpkin juice, it disappeared into the bottomless pit that was his stomach.

He was slightly disappointed when the desserts disappeared after he was finished his trifle, signifying the end of the meal, and he sat back, finishing his fourth glass of pumpkin juice. Maybe he'd make a start on the snacks he had squirrelled away in his trunk later, when he fancied a late evening snack.


	4. Chapter 4

_**Authors Note: **__I'm on a roll today! Four chapters at once?! Jaysus! Envy, with the prompt Neck in Neck. Set around when Harry wins the Felix Felicis. _

**4. A bitter taste**

Hermione scowled at Harry, who was looking cool and collected as he finished off his Draught of Living Death, and glanced back at her own cauldron. The contents were stuck on a murky blackcurrant colour, whereas Harrys had turned into a pale lilac colour some time ago. She glanced back to his cauldron, where his potion promptly turned clear as water. Jealousy flared in her chest, and her scowl deepened. What was going on? She was so good at potions usually. Harry was usually the hopeless one. What was he doing right that she wasn't? She was following the book to the letter, it should be clear by now, and yet it was still dark purple, mocking her in its refusal to go the way she wanted it to.

In the corner of her eye, Harry sat back, relaxing with the completion of his potion, and looking around himself idly. The rest of the class were faring no better than Hermione herself. Seamus' had blown up in his face earlier, Crabbe's had melted his spoon, and the others were looking dishevelled and frustrated as they did various things to their respective potions. She was glad that she wasn't the only one having problems, but she couldn't stand the slightly smug look on Harrys face as he just sat there looking at them. For a brief, terrible moment, she hated him. How dare he outshine her and then just sit there, gloating silently and watching everyone fail? How dare he be better than her?! She was the smart one, the one that helped him with his homework, who wrote the introductions to most of Ron's essays, how dare he suddenly get better than her in one of the hardest subjects on the curriculum?!

Within the few moments she had taken to fume over Harry's completed potion and the way he was sitting, her potion had been neglected, and was starting to congeal. She gave is a stir, feeling the spoon drag through sediment at the bottom of the cauldron, and avoided Harry's eye, knowing that if she looked at him now she'd snap at him, accuse him of cheating. He couldn't want the Felix Felicis this badly, could he? It was a fascinating potion, and it would be a godsend to anyone who had it, but there was barely enough for a couple of swallows, enough to give good luck for a couple of hours at the most, nothing more. Harry needed more than a couple of hours of good luck to get through his life. Personally, Hermione had always maintained the belief that you made your own luck.

When Professor Slughorn finally told them to step away from their cauldrons, the condition of her potion hadn't gotten any better. It hadn't gotten worse, but it hadn't gotten better either. It also wasn't as bad as some of the others. He gave hers a cursory glance before moving on, tutting slightly. She could have sworn she heard the words "expected better" and rage flared in her chest. She was one of the best students in his class! She was the best student in _anyone's_ class! Her intelligence was her defining feature! How could he just dismiss her like that?! Her rage was fanned by jealousy as the professor reached Harry's cauldron, and he cautiously dropped a leaf into it. His praise carried across the room for everyone to hear, and her face reddened. There had never been any cause to compliment Harry's potions before today. What had changed? Her jealousy and rage slowed to a simmer as Professor Slughorn moved on to Ron's potion, and she avoided Harry's gaze. He was grinning. The smug bastard.

At the end of the class, Professor Slughorn made a big show out of presenting the tiny vial of potion to Harry, shaking his hand and telling him that his mother's talent for potions had been passed to him, finishing with a warning to use the potion wisely. Hermione kept her face neutral, making sure the green eyed monster was well hidden, and gave Harry a half smile when he reached his table again. She managed a quiet "well done" before flinging her bag onto her back and following Ron out of the classroom, Harry presumably behind them.


End file.
